by Anna Lord
20
Unmasked
As soon as breakfast was out of the way, Major Nash bid goodbye to his houseguests and returned to the great hall where Mycroft, Sherlock, Dr Watson and the Countess had gathered around the fire. Cigars, cigarettes and pipes were lit and everyone threw themselves into the most comfortable chair they could find.
Colonel Moriarty, who had mounted his horse and galloped away half an hour ago had merely gone a few miles down the road and then doubled back across the fields.
“Do you mind if I join you?” he said as he sauntered in, guessing that there would be some sort of debriefing session.
No one had any objection, so he helped himself to one of Mr Blague’s finest Macanudos and found a seat.
“Did we achieve anything during the last two days?” said Mycroft, heaving a breath as he puffed on a fat cigar. “Who wants to get the ball rolling?”
“I think we made headway,” replied Sherlock chirpily, smiling cagily at his daughter. “Ladies first is the rule. Why don’t we start with the Countess? She can outline her theory and we can debate any points of contention as we go.”
No one took issue with that suggestion. Most of them were worn out with conversation and were happy for someone else to take the floor. That was the usual way after a weekend spent socializing in the countryside. Everyone returned to the city more exhausted than when they departed. Apart from extroverted lunatics most people could only stomach so much of other people’s company before they went stark raving mad.
Major Nash threw a log on the fire then threw himself into a tapestry wing chair just outside the circle of settees and sofas, eschewed a cigar, and put his feet up on an ottoman. Unlike the others present, he had never witnessed the Countess sum up a case from start to finish. He closed his eyes and hoped he would be able to stay awake or at least look like he was awake. He’d hardly had any sleep the last two nights and had gone beyond the call of duty for little or no gain. The weekend had not achieved all that he had hoped and he felt disappointed.
The Countess rose to her feet and stood with her back to the fire where the flames brought out the rich autumnal hues in her chestnut hair. She was wearing one of the newer style gowns that made the female form appear slimmer; the fabrics were softer and the silhouette more fluid. She had lit a cigarette but realized now that she did not wish to smoke and talk at the same time so she tossed it on the flames.
“I presume nothing is out of bounds?’ she said, looking squarely at Mycroft.
The imperious portly body shifted uneasily. It suddenly dawned on him why Sherlock suggested the Countess go first. She had probably figured out more than most, more even than he had given her credit for. He had wondered more than once who had tampered with his sock drawer and put it down to Nash or Sherlock but he realized now she was the most likely culprit since she occupied the connecting bedroom.
But he was weary of this business, weary of being attacked by rabid dogs and rolling barrels and exploding bombs. Most of all he was weary of endless blather. He wanted to go back to the Diogenes Club, to the dome room, to privacy, to silence.
For that to happen he had to put an end to whoever was behind this business to kill him off. It had to be settled before he returned to London and the next attempt proved successful.
“Nothing,” he confirmed, sighing heavily. “Speak freely.” And, he wanted to add, speak concisely and quickly for all our sakes!
“So be it: Dogs bite their enemies, I bite my friends to save them,” she warned, quoting Diogenes. “I want to stress I have no proof for what I am about to put forward. This weekend has proven enlightening by way of hearsay or anecdote and you may disagree with any part of it. That is up to you. I shall start with the night of the ball.
It started with Dr Watson being tripped on the stairs. He recognized the face before he blacked out but he couldn’t remember exactly who it was when he woke up. Yesterday he remembered it was someone dressed as Henry VIII. There were three such figures at the top of the stairs: Damery, Blague and de Merville. Now, he had not met Mr Blague, nor was he personally acquainted with Sir Damery, but whether one is acquainted with General de Merville or not, his photograph has appeared in newspapers on numerous occasions. In other words, everyone is acquainted with the general. If Dr Watson recognised a face from the trio, it would most likely be that of General de Merville.
We proceed to the dome room where the first bomb went off. Someone, presumably the roaming photographer, placed the bomb in the room but someone needed to set the timer. It couldn’t be done hours in advance in case it was found and defused. It could only be done minutes beforehand, perhaps ten or twenty at most.
There were six men in that room. It could have been any one of them who flicked a switch to start the bomb ticking. Let us remind ourselves it was Isadora Klein who suggested trying the hookahs and Blague who was most keen. Damery was positioned in the centre of the room, acting as mediator. Major Nash had his weapon pointed at Colonel Moriarty and the colonel was in the spotlight. That leaves the general and the prince free to see to the bomb. Mr Blague recalled the prince lighting a cigarette and wandering around the perimeter of the room, looking bored. The general, also bored, tinkered with the water pipes on the hookahs.
Whoever switched on the timer knew he had only a certain amount of time to get out of the room before the bomb exploded. Mr Blague and Prince Sergei were keen for the duel to go ahead but it was the general who argued most fiercely in favour of not wasting time.”
She turned to Major Nash and Colonel Moriarty. “Is that how you remember it?”
They both nodded.
“Yes, it was de Merville who suggested the lanterns,” said Major Nash, sitting up and paying attention despite his fatigue.
“He shot down everything Damery said to postpone things,” added the colonel. “And he raced away first. The others followed.”
“In other words,” said the Countess, “he wanted to make sure he was not inside the dome room when it blew up.”
“Bastard!” muttered Moriarty under his breath.
“Don’t be hasty,” tempered Mycroft, loath to point the finger at his old friend. “Let’s hear all the anecdotal evidence and let’s bear in mind it is only anecdotal.” He indicated for her to continue.
“Mrs Klein was meant to join the men for some shisha but she never made it. She was dancing with Pugsy Setterfield and when she managed to get away she claimed she went to the wrong room. My maid confirmed seeing Mrs Klein rushing up to the dome room on the other side of the building, staying but a moment and rushing back down the stairs.
Now, one must ask, who set off the second timer? The one person seen going up to the dome room before the blast was Mrs Klein. So, was she going to the wrong room? Or was it in fact the right room? If she knew the general was setting the timer for the first dome room, she could set the second and make her escape in plenty of time.
Mrs Klein claimed she saw the Princess of Wales going to get her cloak as she was coming down the stairs but we know the Princess of Wales was in the cloak room when the bombs went off so she would hardly be getting her cloak twice.
Though let us give her the benefit of the doubt.
Nevertheless, there is also the question of Pugsy Setterfield. Miss de Merville also claimed she was having the last dance with Pugsy, so one of the women is lying. I was dancing with the Prince of Wales when the three men were crossing the foyer prior to the bombs going off and I can confirm seeing Miss de Merville, though I cannot recall Pugsy, and I cannot recall seeing Mrs Klein on the dance floor either and yet she is not an easy woman to overlook.
Furthermore, Mrs Klein claimed she saw the studio photographer moving the camera under the stairs as she was descending the staircase, but she must have come down much earlier and already have had her cloak and gone out to the veranda as far from the pavilion as possible. Her gown and cloak had no blood on them whatsoever as she directed the bucket brigade.
The only reason I can
think for her to say she saw the photographer would be to divert suspicion away from herself. If she saw someone moving the camera and thought it odd or thought nothing of it, she could not possibly be accused of knowing there was a bomb inside that was meant to be on the table.
Much later, after she organized the bucket brigade she disappeared inside the pavilion. My maid saw her go to the powder room. But my maid did not see when she came out. That suggests she was in there for longer than a few minutes. She had time to follow the studio photographer up the second staircase when he went to salvage his equipment; she had time to strangle him with a length of petticoat which she could easily have picked up. She is certainly strong enough to overpower a puny man who is unprepared.
Of all the guests at the ball, Mrs Klein was in the two places where someone needed to be to set off the second bomb and strangle the photographer. Coincidence, unfortunate timing or meticulous planning?”
Sherlock was smiling proudly.
Mycroft was growing uncomfortable.
Major Nash was sitting upright, staring at the Countess as if seeing her for the first time.
Moriarty was muttering obscenities under his breath along the lines of: Bitch…!
Dr Watson was listening with interest, having missed most of the action.
“If no one has anything to add, I will go on.”
The five men all nodded.
“This part, I admit, is pure conjecture. My maid went twice to the carriage park to check for my troika. On the first occasion she saw a man sitting in Mrs Klein’s carriage. The carriage curtains were open. The man was not a guest at the ball, in other words he was not wearing a costume, nor was he wearing the livery of a servant or a military uniform. I suggest it was the roaming photographer who had placed the camera on the hall table as he had been instructed and then ran for his life. Mrs Klein claimed the unknown man must have leapt into her carriage out of fear but it is noteworthy that of all the carriages in the park he leapt into hers.
A short time later the two footmen went into the carriage and there was a lot of shaking. The curtains were now closed. We now know the two footmen were part of the Barney Stockdale gang. I think it highly likely they were strangling him. He was strangled by hand so it had to be someone strong. Not a woman. Sir Damery said the man later left the carriage but he did not actually see him go. Prince Sergei, whose carriage was parked alongside that of Mrs Klein, was in his carriage the entire time but he did not mention the man apart from seeing him running in a panic across the lawn toward the carriages.
According to Sir Damery, when Mrs Klein arrived at the carriage park, she went not into her own carriage but into that of the prince who then suddenly had his curtains closed. I presume they were having an assignation but it also gave her an alibi, in that the prince witnessed her getting into her own carriage which presumably had a dead body inside. So, should someone claim the man never got out of her carriage she could call their bluff, call on the prince to confirm he saw her getting into her carriage and making no fuss whatsoever over a man being inside her carriage, not even a dead man!
But here is the interesting thing, witnessed by Sir Damery. Her coachman drives right around the perimeter of the park, stopping several times for no apparent reason. He goes around twice and then presumably finds the gate that other drivers have had no trouble locating.
This makes no sense unless the footmen used that time to dump the body of the photographer in the pump house. The first time the carriage went round they leapt out with the body and dragged it to the pump house. The second time, they climbed back on the backboard. Hence the reason for going around twice.
Mrs Klein made a great show of berating her coachman for being drunk but I believe that’s what it was – a show.”
Major Nash and Colonel Moriarty were both nodding. They had both wondered why the photographer had run all the way down to the pump house to hide. It was dark. Everyone was distracted. Why didn’t he just keep running? Or better still, if he had planted the bombs surely he would have arranged for transport to flee the scene. But if it had been agreed that he would get into Mrs Klein’s carriage and hide until she came, perhaps to pay him off for a job well done, then it made sense.
If she had employed two punishers from the Barney Stockdale gang it made even more sense that the dead body would be dumped in the pump house and then dumped in the lake the following night, hopefully so that no one would link the body to the pump house and recall that her carriage had stopped near the pump house twice on the night of the ball.
“Well done,” praised Sherlock. “You put together the missing links: where the man was killed, who killed him, when he was killed, how his body got into the pump house, and how it then got into the lake. The facts speak for themselves.”
Mycroft could not refute the facts as stated. “I agree it looks as if Isadora Klein organized the bombs but the evidence against de Merville is circumstantial and weak. I cannot condemn a decorated war general on such flimsy evidence.”
The Countess conceded the evidence was weak. “This may help to convince you, though it is also mere conjecture. When the men were duelling in the wood, de Merville did not react to the bombs until the third bomb went off. The first two didn’t seem to bother him though his most beloved and only daughter was somewhere inside the pavilion. I suggest he knew the first two bombs were for show, merely to blow the roofs off the two end domes and give Mycroft a bit of a scare. I think this is what Isadora told him in order to get him to set the timer on the first bomb. But when that third bomb went off he ran as fast as he could toward the pavilion, terrified for Violet. I think the third bomb was a complete surprise to him.
When he was intoxicated he was saying things like: third bomb, doll under the stairs, oracle over a barrel, an honest dog…and so on. They are all jumbled allusions to Diogenes and what took place on the night of the ball or thereafter.
And that explains his sudden addiction to whiskey. He is a hardened soldier and yet he was more distressed after the night of the ball than any young lady in London. I think he was trying to drown his guilt, his fear of being found out, his regret at the part he had played in setting off the first bomb, and his regret at being duped by Isadora Klein.
She enquired after his health and made sure to emphasise to Violet to let her father know she had enquired. It was as if she was sending a message to de Merville to hold his nerve. I wouldn’t be surprised if she paid him a visit when she left the tennis court (she had ample time before meeting up with Major Nash) and threatened him with exposure or threatened harm to Violet and that’s why he went down to the cellar again – perhaps to drown his sorrows, perhaps to end it all.”
Dr Watson was nodding. “Yes, I heard him muttering the same sorts of things. They made no sense at the time but it was clear his conscience was deeply troubled.”
Major Nash, still flushed at being so-named, agreed with the Countess. “I recall he didn’t want to come to Longchamps. He didn’t want to discuss the bombs and yet he would normally have been the first to convene a meeting to discover all that he could to find the men responsible for such a heinous act. In all the years I have observed the general inside the club house I have never known him to drink to excess. He is definitely troubled. And in my defence…”
“Shut up, Nash,” interrupted Moriarty, “before you make an ass of yourself. No one here believes you were genuinely interested in Isadora. We know you were acting under orders to work your magic charm on the bitch or doing some special undercover work of your own. Let’s leave it at that.”
Moriarty could afford to be magnanimous. The Countess had all but declared her love for him. It was only a matter of time before they were spoken of in terms of having an understanding, marital or otherwise.
Besides, Nash was going to come out of this looking like a hero for inventing this little get-together and the Countess was going to thank him kindly for giving her the opportunity to figure it all out, but he wasn’t about to let Nash take
the floor and recount how much he had sacrificed in the name of Queen, country and club house.
Magnanimity only stretched so far!
“So,” said Sherlock, getting back on track, “we are all in agreement it is Mrs Klein behind the threat to kill my brother?”
“Yes,” agreed Major Nash, who had suspected the haughty Spanish beauty since yesterday. “And if she is behind the bombs, she must also be behind the dog attacks. Her two footmen could easily have signalled a man to bring the dog to the front of the house when they spotted Mycroft standing under the porch. Once this fog lifts, a search of the cottages will probably reveal the hiding place of the dog.” He looked earnestly at his boss. “Something will have to be done about her, sir.”
Mycroft nodded grimly. “Yes, the French king of the day may have to go into exile. A quiet word in her ear about the Turkish Baths might be enough to see her decide to take a long holiday abroad. If she is obstinate, a small leak to the press about what goes on in the private massage rooms will put the wind up her. I imagine quite a few gentlemen will be very upset, upset enough to employ the services of Colonel Moriarty. A full blown public scandal would see her declared persona non grata amongst the sort of society she craves for the rest of her life.”
“And General de Merville?” pursued the ADC.
Mycroft grimaced, thinking of the general’s Khyber Pass fame. “A bit trickier considering his reputation. Exile from the Diogenes Club is probably the way to go. He poses no threat to my position if he is not a member; he is never going to be elected primus baro. Resign he must. He loses face, of course, but it will appear to be sour grapes at losing the election. The Carlton Club does not have the same prestige but Damery is there to console his wounded pride.”
Sherlock was in agreement with his elder sibling and decided to paraphrase the ancient philosopher. “If Diogenes can live without de Merville, then de Merville can live without Diogenes!”
